


To Give Unasked

by Saucery



Series: Hartwin Stories [11]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Affection, Aftercare, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Fisting, Aunts & Uncles, Bathtubs, Big Sisters, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bukkake, Caning, Cock Slut, Cohabitation, Consciousness Play, Consensual Kink, Corporal Punishment, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cunnilingus, DILFs, Daddy Kink, Deepthroating, Devotion, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Dom/sub, Dominance, Double Penetration, Edgeplay, Ensemble Cast, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Fainting, Family Feels, Filthy, Fisting, Foot Jobs, Gags, Gangbang, Gentle Sex, Gentleness, Group Sex, Happy, Home, Immobility, Incest Kink, Incest Play, Kinky, Knifeplay, Lap Sex, Lazy Sex, Living Together, Love, Loyalty, M/M, Marathon Sex, Masochism, Master/Servant, Masturbation, Milking, Multi, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Obedience, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Orders, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgy, Painplay, Piercings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Porn, Praise Kink, Present Tense, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Roughness, S&M, Sadism, Sensuality, Service Kink, Service Submission, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Slavery, Shoe Kink, Shoes, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Subdrop, Submission, Subspace, Teasing, Threesome - M/M/M, Tie Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Kingsmen are a big, happy, polyamorous family of Doms, and Eggsy is their sub.</p><p>Since they are a “family,” there’s quite a bit of incestuous roleplay, here. Harry is Eggsy’s daddy, Merlin, Percival and Lancelot are his uncles, and Roxy is his sister.</p><p>Yes, I deliberately left Arthur out of this, because he’s a bastard and I don’t believe he deserves Eggsy’s fine booty.</p><p>But everyone else sure does.</p><p>Welcome to hell. We hope you enjoy your stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Give Unasked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1001cranes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/gifts).



> For 1001cranes, who is probably the only person on God’s green earth capable of rivaling my depravity. Thank you for existing, my dear.
> 
> Oh, and the Kingsmen share a residence, in this story. They sort of have to.
> 
> The title is from Kahlil Gibran’s _The Prophet_.

* * *

 

It’s Eggsy’s job to provide sexual services to the agents, to help them unwind after missions, but he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it. It makes him feel special, important, _essential_ , and that’s the best feeling of all.

He loves it when Harry smooths Eggsy’s hair while Eggsy sucks Harry off, as if Eggsy is precious to him, his good boy, his perfect boy. Harry brushes the polished tip of his shoe lightly against Eggsy’s leaking cock, a barely-there, tantalizing pressure as Eggsy suckles at him. It’s only when Eggsy’s lashes are damp with tears that Harry finally presses his shoe downward, its stiff leather sole deliciously cruel against Eggsy’s swollen, throbbing erection. Eggsy comes, gasping around Harry’s prick.

“Daddy,” Eggsy rasps as Harry withdraws, “please,” and Harry rewards him by ejaculating on his face. Eggsy shudders at the sudden splatter, filthy and stained and somehow at peace, reminded of his place in the world, of how safe and warm it is. Harry tidies him, afterward, wiping him carefully with a monogrammed handkerchief that he instructs Eggsy to leave unwashed, so Harry can gag Eggsy with it, whenever he fucks Eggsy in the following week. So Eggsy can taste his own semen for days on end. So he can remember that he belongs on his knees.

Eggsy loves it when he’s pouring drinks at the oval table, after mission briefings, and someone—frequently Tristan or Gawain—bends him over the table and takes him, right there, in front of the remaining agents. Eggsy allows his hole to be used, oiled and perpetually ready as it is, stretched by cock after cock. He loves it when he’s passed around, from lap to lap, squirming and biting his lip, because he’s been told to be quiet, no matter how sore he gets, no matter desperately he yearns to come. When they’re done with him, he’s sent off, still hard, to fetch whiskeys and wines, and he stays untouched throughout dinner, until he softens. Until they _let_ him soften.

Merlin’s the disciplinarian. Eggsy knows better than to _try_ to get punished, now, but he doesn’t regret his punishments, either. Merlin has Eggsy count each strike of his rattan cane, reducing Eggsy to a burning, melting mess. Eggsy sobs out numbers that blur in his mind, just as shapes and colors blur before his eyes. Merlin fucks him like that, discarding the cane to pull viciously on Eggsy’s hair, and Eggsy moves with it, blind and seeking. Each slap of Merlin’s flesh against his buttocks stings and sparks, drawing helpless cries from Eggsy’s slack, drooling mouth. It’s as though the pain erodes him to his very core, to something naked and trembling within him, to a weak, mewling child. When Merlin is finished with Eggsy’s lesson, he massages a soothing balm into Eggsy’s flushed, scorching skin, cradling him and comforting him and whispering reassurances, mending what he broke with a gentleness that makes Eggsy shake.

Eggsy is generally left wrapped in a blanket, half-dozing on the sofa in the lounge room, and when Harry finds him, Harry smiles and picks him up. “Uncle Merlin was rough with you today,” he observes, and Eggsy sags in his grasp, mumbling, “I deserved it,” to which Harry replies, with a chuckle, “Of course you did.” He carries Eggsy upstairs, to his bed, where he lays Eggsy atop the cool, satiny sheets, binding his wrists with a silk tie and kissing him from head to toe, till Eggsy begs for it to stop, because it’s too good, too soon. Harry doesn’t stop, however, since Eggsy hasn’t uttered his safeword, nor does he, as the hours pass.

Lancelot’s the playful one, the one who toys with Eggsy’s nipples until they’re puffy, their dark pink obscene against the black velvet of Lancelot’s gloves, because Lancelot doesn’t bother removing them when he returns from a mission, even if they smell of gunpowder and ash. Lancelot’s the one who tugs on the nipple rings he put on Eggsy and offers to pierce Eggsy’s cock next, laughing fondly when Eggsy stutters, “Yes, p-please, Uncle,” breathless and shy, looking up at Lancelot coyly.

Percival is Lancelot’s lover, so he often joins them, a wonderfully somber contrast to Lancelot’s cheerful depravity, the shade to Lancelot’s sun. Sometimes, they have Eggsy watch them, kneeling at the foot of their mattress as they make love, Lancelot driving into Percival slowly and tenderly, with Percival’s eyelids drifting shut. They’re as indifferent to Eggsy as if he were merely a living mirror, reflecting their lust back at them, an object and not an intensely aroused voyeur. And yet, at other times, they spoil Eggsy like a favored pet, trapping him between their sweat-slick, undulating bodies, impaled on both their cocks at once. Eventually, it’s too much for him, and he goes lax, his muscles giving way under the strain, overwhelmed by a strange lethargy. Heat wells up in him at their lazy, languid rocking, and then that heat wells _out_ of him, like wax out of a candle, as he orgasms in aching pulses, again and again, until he faints.

If Percival approaches him alone, it is usually to have Eggsy spreadeagled on the nearest piece of furniture, and to milk Eggsy with all the dedication of a professional torturer. He pumps Eggsy’s cock steadily and relentlessly, halts when Eggsy is on the verge of climax, and repeats the process for what seems like forever. His otherwise serious features have a sweetness in them, and a kindness, when Eggsy ultimately pleads for release—which Percival gives to Eggsy as generously as he gives his approval, praising Eggsy for lasting so long.

Eggsy adores Percival’s voice, which is invariably mild. The commands Percival issues in that voice are somehow impossible to defy, despite that mildness, and it might be because Eggsy’s seen Percival disembowel a man with a knife. Eggsy asks for that knife, occasionally, when he’s particularly brave—asks for the flat of it to be glided across his inner thighs, for its deadly edge to be scraped along his balls, and along the vulnerable, quivering meat of his belly.

“I could carve out your heart, pretty boy,” Percival murmurs, and Eggsy arches at that, moaning feebly, the blade of Percival’s dagger dangerously close to cutting him. Eggsy perversely _wants_ to be cut, just a bit—a shallow, threatening slice. He wants to savor the hot spill of his blood, as hot as the spill of his seed, and perhaps Percival notices that, for his eyes gleam and his lips curve, and he says, “Someday, nephew. Someday,” and it’s a promise Eggsy hopes Percival keeps.

Roxy has a tendency to walk in on Eggsy when somebody else is using him, and has a tendency to _stay_ , settling on the windowsill with a leg braced upon it, her hand sneaking into her unbuttoned trousers to tease herself. She’s the youngest Dom among the Kingsmen, so she waits her turn, her hungry patience lapping at the fringes of his awareness. When he’s lying there after getting fucked, disheveled and panting, she shoves her pants off and straddles his face, rubbing her clit against the faint stubble on his chin, the wet folds of her labia parting for his tongue.

“That’s it,” she says, husky and delighted. “Eat me out, little brother.”

He obeys. She’s musky and salty and mossy, her every small, greedy growl punctuated by a savage grind of her hips, smothering Eggsy, his sloppy, slurping noises muffled by her weight. After she comes, she climbs off him, his jaw shiny and slippery with her juices, which she licks kittenishly while she idly wanks him off, or, if she still isn’t satisfied, while she rides him. Eggsy doesn’t dare move, unless she orders him to; she prefers smirking at him as he tries to stay motionless, working herself on his cock until he shoots into the condom she put on him, convulsing with a powerless twist of his spine, and she grins, maddeningly superior, at his surrender. Yeah, she’s his elder sister, but she can be insufferable about it.

On Eggsy’s lucky days, Roxy fists him, after he’s been loosened by her largest dildo or by the previous Kingsman’s dick, her slender fingers splitting him open like a ripe fruit, lube dribbling out of him and past her knuckles. It’s a spectacle several Kingsmen drop by to witness—Eggsy on all fours, his shoulders rippling with each push, his teeth buried in his forearm as he drips pre-come onto the carpet, pre-come that he will, as per the rules, be expected to clean. He’s muzzy, his consciousness a warped, molten thing, drugged and unmoored.

The circle of shoes surrounding him only makes the inexorable brutality of it more luscious, more irresistible, because he’s on display and he revels in it, craves it, the attention of his Doms on him, as constant and unremitting as Roxy’s gradually deepening thrusts. He’s drunken, overfull, sated even before he comes, and when he does, it’s almost an afterthought, a mechanical twitch like a momentary sprain, wracking through him before leaving him wrung out, sprawled bonelessly on the floor.

If he’s luckier, the Kingsmen fuck him after that, arranging his tired limbs as they see fit, coming on him and in him, down his throat and up his arse, until he is nothing but a tremor, a bruise, a smudge—mindless and worn, sticky inside and out, a rag instead of a human being.

He can tell that he’s treasured, though, that he’s cherished, because of how they care for him later, because of their hushed words and calming touches, and how they’re sure to call Harry, if he wasn’t there to begin with, so that Harry can tend to him.

Eggsy slumps into the bathtub as Harry gets in behind him, holding him silently as the steaming water eases into Eggsy, relaxing him until his involuntary twinges and winces are replaced by an exquisite languor, a sluggish, all-encompassing whiteness that erases his thoughts. Harry strokes his arms and kisses his neck, and when Eggsy is suitably drowsy, Harry lifts him out of the bath and towels him dry. The towel is coarse and rich with Harry’s scent, and Eggsy nuzzles into it.

“Sleep w’me, Daddy?” he says, although he assumes Harry will, anyway. He always does, when Eggsy needs him to.

“You’ve done well,” Harry says, at last, when they’re in bed, with Harry spooned around him. “You’ve done so very well.”

Eggsy shivers, happiness blooming in his chest, because Harry’s proud of him.

“You give of yourself so beautifully, Eggsy. You’re a gift to all of us.” Harry’s embrace tightens. “To me.”

Maybe it’s silly to blush at that, after everything that’s been done to him, but Eggsy blushes, nevertheless. He curls into Harry, fiercely grateful for what he has, because he’s never had such love before, such devotion. Merlin, Lancelot, Percival, Roxy, Gawain, Tristan, and Harry—especially Harry—have given him a sense of belonging he’s never had, a trust in them that can never be shaken, a joy in losing himself and knowing, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he’ll be found.

This is family. This is home.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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